Uprising
by Ahan1899
Summary: It's year 5E 152, a hundred and fifty-two years since the Empire's downfall. It is when the Third Aldmeri Dominion has gained control over almost whole Tamriel. Technology is advancing rapidly, and the Dominion forces have grown further stronger with their latest invention: firearms. A Nord, an Argonian, and twin Khajiit siblings take their roles to be involved in a great uprising.
1. One

**A/N : T** **his is my first story on FanFictionNet, so I might make some mistake. If you have something in mind, please tell me. Hope you enjoy this** **story. :D**

 **(Recently made some changes in this chapter as I don't really like the previous version.)**

* * *

Jo'masha once again took a glance through the blurry, iced window. It was still the same view; tedious pine trees covered in everlasting snow dashed before his eyes, indicating that the cab was moving at a constant pace. The snow fell relentlessly from the gloomy sky, adding more pile to the humps on the side of the poor-lit road. It was already three hours, and he started to wonder if the horses had turned into snails. A six-hour trip from Solitude to Dawnstar would've been considered exceptional for an ordinary carriage, but he was using the express cab then. That wasn't a good pace for an exclusive carriage. Not to mention about how stressing his current case was. Exasperated, he laid his melon-sized head back on his palms and stretched his long legs to the edge of the opposite seat. They accidentally bumped to his sister's foot. She glanced at him.

"Sorry, sister," he said. His voice was rough, but also as soothing as the finest moon sugar; a typical feature of his feline folk.

"Rhika doesn't mind," she replied, and her gaze was returned to her book. She had jonquil yellow eyes, like her brother, and also shared the same brown fur of his. The only difference between the two was her hair. She had crude, short chocolate hair grown on her entire scalp, leaving her ears sticking out.

He recognized the book. " _The Tale of the Dragonborn …_ " he hummed.

"Masha knows this book?"

His brows curved. "Oh, do I know. It's a contraband," he said with a plain tone. "Where did you get that?"

Rhika pulled a little smile. "This one won't tell, for Masha will do them harm," he replied. "Besides, why is it illegal to read a classic epic?"

The male one released a mocking chuckle, "A classic epic ... Sister, do throw that book away. It harms your apperception."

She closed her book. "Then, what should Rhika read?"

He tended his whisker, "Well ... Try _Dulinir the Slayer_. It's—"

His sister cut him, "That book is terrible."

He paused. "How so?"

Rhika sighed, "Aside than the fact that it's aimed to spread another Thalmor doctrine, it has neither purpose of entertainment, nor to—if there is any—portray an epic. It clearly is an insult for classic literature."

Her brother closed his eyes, saying, "Said a novice Thalmor Inspector." He took a pause. "Seriously, I'll burn all of your contraband books once we're done with this case."

She smiled. "Rhika would like to see Masha try," she offered, before sinking back to her book.

Silence came back in and he could hear the horses clacking their shoes on the road. It sounded like music, with random notes and rhythm, yet measured pattern.

His impatience was actually quite understandable. For years, he'd been dealing with many homicide cases and it had been imperative for him to get to the scene before it gets contaminated, or before the victim's body rots. Though, his current case didn't involve any corpse whatsoever, which was very odd that his intendant had sent him for investigation. Not that he didn't have the knack for his current case, but he just didn't like it and preferred the homicide investigation as his specialization. A clerk in Dawnstar had reported several anomalies in the arsenal account, and a significant amount of firepowder and firearms had gone "missing" from their inventory. There was an assumption of Thieves Guild and/or local authority being involved, but it was worth more investigation before jumping to any conclusions.

"Rhika is glad being with Masha," she began, breaking the long silence. "Compared to Rhika's previous associates, Masha isn't that bad."

Jo'masha turned his eyes on her. "Is that so?" A concerned frown formed on his forehead.

"Yes. They acted just normal when they were face to face with Rhika, but they called Rhika childish and useless behind her back," she explained. "They really underestimated Khajiits' hearing capability," she added.

Jo'masha rose slightly from his seat. "Name them, sister. I'll make sure those scumbags won't be able to shit for months. Literally!"

Rhika managed a giggle. "No need," she said. "They're not worth Masha's attention."

"Of course they're worth my attention," he sighed.

"It's okay," she assured him. "Rhika can handle it herself, with less violence."

Jo'masha stared for a moment, before releasing a scoff and going back to his docile state. "Whatever," he laid back, turning his eyes to the outside of the window.

His sister only delivered a smile. Her smile, as always, worked wonders on his temper.

* * *

Thixei had many names. As a hatchling, his parents called him Utaish; a final hope. His hatch had been the last shot for his parents to turn their life downside-up, as their fortune had been ravaged in a bloody raid, a couple of days before his hatch. Their prayer had finally answered. He was favored by his intendants, earning the name "Sahtelel", which literally meant "Star Child" in Jel. But the name "Thixei" slurred all by itself, as if it spawned from thin air. There was a rumor; a mysterious Argonian, widely believed to be a farm-born lizard. Spares no witnesses, he executes his missions efficiently, with no flaw can be perceived even by the most careful eyes in Black Marsh. People who claim to be the survivors of his rampage whisper his name. Thixei. The Eye of a Snake.

He scoffed at that cheap Inn-dweller gossip and thought that they exaggerated it a little bit. But, still, he liked the name and kept it as a trophy.

He always hated outsiders. They kept coming back like rats. Countless efforts had made by An-Xileel to keep them away; from intimidating blackmails to direct termination. It was as if they had no bits of vengeance or dismay against the lizardfolk, and let it all slide like nothing had happened. _Such nobles_ , he thought to himself. With a grunt, he shifted the old chair and walked away from those rabbles.

His pale green scale reflected the orange dim light of a lantern next to the doorframe. The door swung open, and the sun immediately bombarded him with its blinding lights. The effect wore off after a while, and then he could see the beautiful panorama of Blackrose slums. The sky was clear, with few clouds floating over his head and he had a clear vision of horizon. Below the horizon, outside the wall, was a dense green jungle, virtually looked like the head of broccoli stretched to the whole field of view. He leaned his arms on the railing.

Someone tapped softly on his shoulder. It was a female Argonian with scales of tangelo orange. Thixei quickly recognized her as one of the Organism agent, judging from her covertly outfit with a jet black cloak covering her from shoulders to knees. "Operative Utaish?" she asked, slurring her murky reptilian feature.

"In person," Thixei replied.

She raised her gloved hand to her chest, "An honor to meet you," she said. "I am here to deliver a message. Your eyes only." From her pouch, she took a letter, sealed with red wax.

Thixei took the letter and broke the seal. Carefully, his gaze travelled across the letter. "Xhuth …" he swore. He was going to ask the agent regarding his order, but—as expected—she was already gone by then.

He'd been dealt with serious jobs before this one, but his targets weren't so significant back then. They mostly comprised of some penny-ante aristocrats who had opposed the An-Xileel cause. It was a direct letter from The Organism and was approved by the moots. He was tasked to terminate Chancellor Saloril, the second most powerful person in Tamriel.


	2. Two

For Irget, her son was everything. Who would've known that the frail infant she'd had bred could give her all the happiness in the world. It was just like yesterday he was born, and a day after her lover left her like trash. Twenty years before, a man had stumbled into her inn, badly wounded from a dire bear attack. The man was a missionary, a Nord, with charming blue eyes and loose blond hair. It was natural for the woman to get captivated at his sight. The man felt the same way, and so their love story had begun. They lived a good life together in her small house, and felt like nothing could end it. That was, until the man started to feel sinful, and disgusted with himself. He then left her, without any word or any farewell. And now, she was going to see it happen again; only this time, with words and farewell.

Her son started to feel uneasy. "Mor, please," he said, "You're embarrassing me."

But his mother kept sobbing on his legs. Her arms wrapped tightly around them. The Justiciar lost his patience and rolled his eyes, "Don't worry madam. We'll take a good care of your son," he said.

"Mor, I—"

"Kveld!" she suddenly rose her head. Her blue eyes glimmered with tears. "You don't have to leave!"

Kveld cocked his head, "What are you talking about?" he sighed. "I'm bound to join the army."

"That is correct, Madam," the other Justiciar said, "He's even postponed the draft for over a year."

"And another postponement will send him right to the prison," the other one added.

Kveld hissed, "You heard them."

Irget took another stuttered breath and traveled her gaze across his square face. He was indeed her son after all. His sky blue eyes resembled hers, so was his flaxen blond hair. "Very well. You can go."

"He _must_ go," the Altmer blurted.

Kveld smiled, and then held his mother's shoulder, "Good bye, mother."

He gave her the tightest, warmest, farewell embrace. "Take this," her mother said, handing him over a gypsum amulet. It shaped a circle, with a growling bear symbol on it. "It will keep you safe, my son."

Then, an unknown moment had passed when he realized he was already on the wagon, along with five other conscripts. There wasn't much snow then, and most of the pine trees were lush green, covered with thick Falkreathian morning haze, and the skin-biting breeze was still present. The wagon shook when the wheels trailed over the steep pathways.

"Kveld is it?" a masculine voice said.

Kveld rose his head and looked around for the source of the voice. It was a Redguard sat across his seat. His brown skin had some kind of white luminescence when sunrays made contact with it. The right side of his jet hair had been shaved off, and the rest of it wasn't very long, but not so short either, dangling on the left side of his shoulder. "Yes?" the Nord replied.

"Quite a mother you have back there," the Redguard continued. His voice sounded as if his nose was pressed as he spoke.

Kveld could feel his ears warming up. While it wasn't common for anyone else, for him, it was a sign of pudency. "Yeah ..."

The Redguard chuckled. "Ma didn't even cry for me."

"Good for you," Kveld said. His ears were still warm.

"Yeah. Instead, she only said, 'Just go out there, serve our queen, and stop being a burden, you useless talking dung'."

"Your mother said that?"

"Not really. But that's what it felt like."

Both of them chuckled. The young Nord gave him his hand, "Kveld. Kveld Raven-Songs"

The Redguard accepted it, "Bolle Nuel."

"So..." Kveld began, "where are you from?"

"Was born in Elinhir, till Ma and Pa moved to Markarth. Business thingies, they said. Didn't like being there, though. Too much stones, you know ..."

Kveld chortled, "Tell me about it."

"Workin' as a blacksmith apprentice for over two years. T'was all fun, till got conscripted by these elven fools."

Kveld jumped, "Hey, hey. Not so loud."

"Ah, yes. Sorry," he chuckled. It was a silence for a moment before the Redguard struck another question. "Anyhow, you're from Dragested, yes?"

"Yes."

"How's life there?"

The Nord shrugged. "Nothing special. Like the other cities, we have farms, barns, blacksmiths, and pens. Hunters hunt for games to East every Morning Star and Mid Year, usually for deer and elks," he remarked. "As for me, I'm just a bard in my mother's inn."

"So, you're a bard? Sing somethin', then."

Kveld's ears were getting warm again. "However," he punctuated on this one, "I'm not known to be the best."

Bolle nodded, "Well, then. Don't be bothered by my last request."

"Thanks."

Then, ahead of them, he saw a prodigious structure stood sturdily on the steep slopes of Falkreathian highland. It was a massive building, built almost completely by dark-grayish bricks. Metallic black cylinders were peeping out from small openings on the walls. Stood sparsely on top of the walls were people, carrying some sort of rod on their shoulder. Hard to tell what it was, given the distance at the moment. Kveld compared the size of the walls with his hand; it was almost equivalent, while people on top of them scaled as about of ants. Inside the wall was a prodigious castle, with a roofless tower stretching out to the sky on top of it.

Bolle's jaw fell agape. "Virgin Morwha …"

"Grand …" Kveld added.

Fellow conscripts were also awed by the sight, the wagon almost flipped over as the lads cranked their body.

"Mara's love, you're all going to flip off the cart!" the old Bosmeri cabman yelled. And an instant, the lads were seated again. The cabman sighed. "It's Fort Knifepoint," he said. "Built a hundred years ago, right after the Empire's downfall."

"What for?" a young Nord asked.

"To ensure their victory, of course," the cabman replied. "The Dominion had to face another enemy back then. Stormcoat, was it?"

"Stormcoat?"

"Aye. They're just bunch of rebelous Nordic monkeys. The persistent ones, I assure you. They kept their resentment for over a century and are still fighting against us until now," the cabman scoffed as he lashed the reins. "They want to shoo off other kins and make Skyrim only for their own. Even the Empire wasn't that dense."

 _And yet, does it make Dominion any better?_ Kveld thought.

"You see how massive she is, compared to other forts in this province?"

"Aye, no doubt," a man said.

The cabman smiled, "That's what's good about the Dominion. They know how to build stuff."

A moment had passed when Kveld realized they were getting closer to the fort. Then, his whole view were blocked by a colossal, arched bronze gate, with a silver emblem of a majestic bird, raising both of its wings while bravely looking to its right side. The gate was scaled of about sixty-foot tall.

A horsed Justiciar escort in front of them waved his hand, signaling the gatekeeper to open the gate. And so, a heavy rattling sound could be heard from inside the gate, then after a moment, the gate split into two symmetrical pieces, and slowly sliding into the walls. A loud bang was heard as the gate had stopped sliding, before the convoy continued inside.

* * *

As they entered the fort, his first impression was countless dark olive pavilions lined up neatly along the curved path of a vast courtyard. The encampment was bustled with activity. Soldiers and officers were occupied with their own affair. They even barely flinched as the massive gate had opened and the wagon drove right past them. Some of the soldiers, who were sprawling around in front of their tents, took a glimpse at the newcomers. One of them was tending some sort of thin metal pipe with old glazed mahogany attached beneath it.

"What is that?"

Some of those soldiers chuckled. Apparently, they heard the Nord's question.

"Musket," Bolle answered. "It's a weapon."

"A weapon?"

"What, guards in Dragested use sticks and stones?"

Kveld _tsk_ ed, "They use swords, axes, and bows."

"Ah," Bolle cocked his head. "Of course. Nords."

Kveld disregarded his last statement. "So how does it work?" he asked again.

Without the two noticed, the rest of the conscripts were listening to Bolle's explanation, too.

Bolle began with a sigh, "You know crossbow?"

Kveld nodded.

"T'works quite similar. You see, crossbow uses string to launch the bolts, yes?"

"Yes."

"Now, musket... Musket uses small lead pellet as the ammunition. A small explosion inside the barrel will propel the pellet."

"Explosion? Like magic?"

"No," Bolle chortled. "No magic involved."

"What, then?" a black haired Nord asked.

Bolle turned to the man, "Fire salt."

The Nord scoffed, "The spice? I know that it's awfully hot, but I never knew it can be so 'explosive'."

All conscripts burst in small laughs.

"Don't know what they do with the salts, but they produce firepowder out of it. Folk in Markarth said that Thalmor had discovered the firepowder formula; an explosive chemical substance, in a Dwemer ruin. Near Ivarstead, if not mistaken," he shrugged. "The ruin had been buried beneath the mountain, but in a battle against the rebels, that ruin's accidentally excavated."

A Breton joined in, "How do they obtain fire salts?"

"Divines know. Rumor has it they breed Flame Atronach."

The Breton exhaled in an awkward manner, with his brown eyes flinching and a slight chuckling.

Kveld nodded reluctantly, and it was then the wagon halted. They were on the sandy, grassless yard, not far from the encampment. Dozens of conscripts were already there, lined up neatly and divided in races. Bosmers were at the end; Nords, Redguards, and Breton, respectively, lined next to them; and Khajiits at the other end.

"Disembark and get into your line, please," a feminine voice with a bit of Betonian accent commanded. Though, it sounded more like, well, a humble request.

Kveld turned at the pale, auburn haired Breton woman who was standing with four Justiciars below them. She was clad in a dark olive belted trench coat, with matching trousers, and was wearing knee-high black boots. On her right forearm was a golden feathered wing emblem, beneath the black epaulette with golden fringes on her shoulders. Her silky hair was hidden beneath the dark olive forage cap, with golden lining at the edges.

There was neither an argument nor a complaint, the conscripts then hopped off the wagon one by one. A fume of sand formed around them.

"Get into your line," she repeated. Kveld half-ran to the Nords' line, along with the other three. Bolle was the only one who went into the Redguards', and the last one had gone into the Bretons'.

Immediately after, the Justiciars walked to each corner of the front and rear ranks, and started to search them, from head to toe. It came to their surprise as the Justiciars left no part unchecked, even their groins weren't an exception. One of them complained, but ceased immediately as the Altmer threatened him with a fireball in his palm.

"All clear," the High Elf said as the inspection was done. "Surprisingly …" he muttered as he glanced at the Khajiits' line.

"Thank you," the woman bowed her head. With a prideful, yet modest gaze, she carefully eyeing at the conscripts with her thin, green eyes. Her gloved hands were placed behind her waist. "Welcome, sons and daughters of Tamriel. I am Captain Marie Lumiére, commander of Company Four of 3rd Conscripts Regiment. Your company."

"You are all here to answer your duty calls—to serve the Dominion and its people. In the last two decades, we've been fighting against the local rebellions, to preserve our Queen's reign, and to ensure Skyrim's unity. On early stages, they were more sporadic, and not so well-managed. Almost barbaric. But as the time goes by, our side suffered more and more damage than theirs. They had become a more serious threat to Dominion. This has to stop."

"That is why you're here, my comrades. We need your help. We need all of your courage and your bravery, to end this rebellion once and for all," her voice rose. "But our enemies aren't to be underestimated. They're warriors, eager to embrace their death for pride and honor. That is why, I expect more from you, my comrades." She ended her short speech with a warm smile. No one spoke right then. All conscripts seemed to be stunned by her speech. "Milirth, you may speak," he said to one of the Justiciar.

The robed High Elf stepped forward. "Here," he spoke with a calm, yet loud voice. His arm went into his robe and soon after, he brought up a scroll of ragged paper. "I'll mention the rules and your training courses. First, the rules," he cleared his throat before continuing. "All recruits are to be isolated here, in Fort Knifepoint, and are forbidden to communicate with relatives outside the fort until the three-month training is finished. Second, all soldiers are strictly forbidden to have any drugs or alcoholic beverages in possession. Third, all soldiers are strictly forbidden to …" the Altmer coughed. "'Procreate', with another. Fourth, all soldiers are bound to chain of commands. Disobeying superiors without any good reasons will be considered treason. Finally, all non-Merish soldiers—with Khajiiti as an exception—are strictly forbidden to possess any spells, spell tomes, or any books about magic. Should a non-Merish has any capability of magic, they are bound to report it immediately to the acting officers. Violating one or some of these rules will have the perpetrator severely punished, and a potent violation might be punished with death. Any question before I proceed?"

A Khajiit raised his hand, "Is moon sugar classified as a drug?"

"It is."

Small murmurs erupted as he said it. Some of them were complaints about the liquor prohibition. They regarded it absurd. The cats complained about the moon sugar regulation, as they're virtually couldn't live without it.

"Silence!" he shouted. His shout crackled like a thunder, his voice could be heard all across the fort. The conscripts went quiet once more. "Very well, I'll proceed." He rolled the paper and put it back into his robe. "For the next month, you'll undergo basic training and drills, with the next two months for advanced training. Basic training includes physical training, theoretical training, and military insight; and advanced training includes musketry training and formation training."

"You'll reside in pavilions available in the encampment. Each pavilion can contain up to eight soldiers," he then cranked his head, counting the amount of the conscripts right then. "I see there are forty of you. It'll make us easier to group. Finally, I'd like to remind you that your training will be hard. You'd best prepare yourselves."

* * *

 _ **So, hey, sorry if it's a long, boring chapter. But, I assure you, the twin Khajiit will make the next chapter more interesting. ;)**_


End file.
